<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>take good care of my baby by peculiar_mademoiselle</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657144">take good care of my baby</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiar_mademoiselle/pseuds/peculiar_mademoiselle'>peculiar_mademoiselle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dracula &amp; Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020), Dracula - Bram Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crack Treated Seriously, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Sleep Sex, Trans Jonathan Harker, Trans Male Character, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 14:54:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,699</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiar_mademoiselle/pseuds/peculiar_mademoiselle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Harker gets far more than he bargained for during his stay at Castle Dracula.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dracula/Jonathan Harker, Jonathan Harker/Mina Harker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>295</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic will feature an afab trans man getting pregnant. If that makes you uncomfortable, please click away. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonathan Harker was enjoying himself. </p><p>Standing outside the castle he’d been perturbed, the oddness of his journey and his welcome had made his hair stand on end, irrationally afraid of what dwelt in the darkness of the shadows cast by such an imposing place. But his host, while odd, was warm and friendly, and quickly put him at ease. Though the Count’s accent was thick and his movements doddery, there was a charm about him that had Jonathan laughing out loud between sips of wine. </p><p>Even the moment when it had transpired that his stay was to be considerably longer than anticipated, had been passed over quickly. A soft touch and reassuring word sweeping away the coolness of the way the Count had told him <em> no</em>. </p><p>Every tale of the castle and this land was fascinating, his host was regaling him as though he were a youth, and Jonathan found himself hanging onto every word. When he was escorted to bed he was flushed from the merriment, and his body was loose and relaxed.</p><p>Had he turned around, he might have caught the hungry way Count Dracula eyed his pinked cheeks, before bidding him goodnight and leaving the room. </p><p>He does double check the Count has in fact left before undressing. It’s a relief to get out his travelling clothes, and an even bigger relief to unwind the bindings below. They’re a necessity in public, if he wants to be perceived as he is, but they’re painful. The skin beneath is red and raw, where the fabric has bitten into his flesh. He’s used to it, but grimaces all the same, swiftly pulling on the shapeless white nightgown. He takes one last glance at Mina’s portrait before crawling into bed, smiling at the memory of Mina’s kisses. Beloved Mina, who, when he’d shakily confessed the truth of his body to her, had let her surprise mingle with her love, and kissed the corner of his mouth with a sighed, “Oh, Jonathan,” that had brought tears to his eyes.</p><p>She’d accepted his proposal two weeks later. </p><p>The bed is huge, and the covers are heavy. They smell...musty, not unpleasant, but certainly not like anyone has slept in them for a considerable time. The wind outside is picking up, rattling the great window in it’s pane, but it only serves to make him feel more cosy in the warm bed.  </p><p>His dreams are lovely, for a while. He’s in a room bathed in golden light, and Mina is there. She stands from her desk, and ghosts toward him, before straddling him on the bed. Her laugh is like the tinkling of bells, and her smile is wide and white. The sensation of her mouth working down his cheek is so real, he squirms against the sheets in pleasure. The movement changes the dream slightly - the light dims, and the weight above him feels heavier than it did before. When the figure lifts its head to stare down at him, he sees that it’s no longer Mina, but his host. </p><p>It’s odd, for sure, but his limbs are leaden and his mind slow, clouded by the mist left in the wake of dreams. He leans into the touch, and the elderly figure above him smirks. The Count of his dream strokes his face, his neck, his breast - and then pauses, his long-nailed fingers clearly feeling the give of his chest. The hands continue down his torso, stopping again between his legs, seeking the feel of something through the fabric, something that isn’t there to be found. For a split second, Dracula’s eyes widen slightly, betraying his surprise, before he smiles again and resumes kissing Jonathan’s neck. </p><p>(Later, this will strike him as very odd indeed. Erotic dreams don’t usually include an acknowledgement of his biology, beyond what is required for the acts themselves. It’s only the fact that his sleepy mind is swirling with heat and pleasure that keeps him from questioning it in the moment.)</p><p>It’s not long before his nightgown is pushed up by strong hands, bunched around his waist, and cool fingers broach the warm wet folds between his legs. Jonathan has had things inside him before, he and Mina have experimented with all sorts, but this is different. Even with such toys, Mina’s touch is light in a way that the Count’s is not. Count Dracula is not a handsome man, but he’s a powerful one, charming too, so Jonathan’s sleep-addled mind understands why his imagination has conjured him so. </p><p>Dracula’s fingers are soon replaced by his cock, and his mouth is on his neck again. Jonathan moans lazily in time with the older man’s thrusts, his body trembling as the twin sensations build to a crescendo. At the moment of climax, his heart is hammering, and his vision whites out. It’s more intense than he expected - more intense than any dream should be. His vision doesn’t come back, instead, everything slowly fades to black. Before he slips into the dark water of a deeper sleep, he’s aware of one final feeling. A sharp scratch at his neck. </p><p>Blinking awake the next morning, he feels dreadful. Like he’d indulged too much the night before, though he knows he didn’t drink enough to get him anything more than pleasantly buzzed. The sheets are a mess, he must have tossed and turned in his sleep. He blushes at the memory of his dreams, though the details of them slip away, flowing through his fingers like sand. </p><p>He’s unsteady on his feet when he stands, and staggers over to a bowl of water, splashing his face. His bleary vision misses the purpling mark, spreading across his throat like an ink spill. </p><p>That night he arrives for dinner oddly nervous, having not seen the Count all day, the silly dream hovering at the back of his mind, refusing to be dispelled. He’s bound again, and smartly dressed, anxiously playing with a wine glass, twirling it by the stem. Steps behind him make him jump, the glass almost slipping from his hand. </p><p>“Good evening, Jonathan,” a voice calls, smooth and rich. </p><p>The uneasiness that he’s been trying hard to suppress all day settles over him like a blanket, as he meets Dracula’s gaze and finds his face smoother, his hair fuller and darker. His eyes are the same though, black as night. They seem to stare through him. </p><p>Jonathan’s gasp is caught behind his teeth, as he realises, too late, that something here is very very <em> wrong</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: some mention of non con</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The dinner is awkward. Jonathan’s mouth is horribly dry and he’s aware that he keeps getting caught staring at the Count’s newly rejuvenated face. Dracula doesn’t seem offended though, smirking to himself as if this is all some great jape at Jonathan’s expense. </p><p>Ever the gentleman, Jonathan tries to start a conversation, but the words are stilted, and spoken like a question. </p><p>“You look well?”</p><p>Dracula grins wider at that, the very image of the Cheshire Cat, and the look in his eyes is almost warm.</p><p>“It’s you, actually. Your presence has invigorated me. Fresh blood,” he says with relish, and Jonathan’s arms become gooseflesh. He tries to smile politely, but it feels stiff even to himself. Even though he can’t shake his discomfort, the thought of sitting in silence after a day alone is painful, so he attempts to engage. </p><p>“This is a wonderful house,” it’s sort of true, he thinks, it’s wonderful in an austere and spooky way, “how long has it been in your family?”</p><p>Dracula must be as desperate for company as he is, because he launches into a tale without preamble and Jonathan is hooked, despite himself. The Count weaves this sprawling history, full of battles and glory. Jonathan interjects when he can, adding details he knows from his education, and asking questions. Every time he does Dracula seems genuinely amused, treating him like a favoured pupil, praising him with an indulgent smile. After half an hour or so they move to the chairs before the fireplace, leaning together conspiratorially. He’s still frightfully confused, but he can’t stop himself from moving closer. </p><p>It isn’t long before his eyes are aching in their sockets, and he stifles a yawn. </p><p>“I’m sorry, I must be more tired than I realised…” </p><p>“Oh dear, I do hope you sleep better tonight,” Dracula’s tone is overly concerned, and rendered inauthentic. If Jonathan hadn’t been rubbing his eyes, he would have seen the flash in the Count’s own at the mention of <em> sleep</em>. </p><p>Jonathan blinks up at him, suddenly afraid again. He shouldn’t feel this exhausted at this time, but he can barely move. </p><p>“Go to sleep, Jonathan,” Dracula says, and his voice is like the rushing of waves. His heavy eyes get lost in the swirling flames, and he nods off right there in the chair.</p><p>He wakes in bed the next morning, aching, feeling as though he hasn’t slept at all.</p><p>His days are spent alone, waiting for the Count to give him some kind of instruction. After all, his presence had been requested, no, demanded, and yet he’s been given no work, no reason to stay. He takes to exploring the house, but the castle is a labyrinth, each corridor almost kaleidoscopic - every door seemingly opens to a new room, with a new set of doors. He wastes days like that, wandering through the house like it’s some kind of forbidden forest, wishing he’d left himself a trail of breadcrumbs. </p><p>It strikes him, on the third day, that he hasn’t seen anyone else in the house. Laughably, his first thought is to wonder who on earth is making his bed? He starts actively looking for people after that, knocking on doors before he enters. No-one appears.</p><p>His nights are spent with Dracula. They talk, but Jonathan feels weaker every day, listless. He worries about his tiredness, fearful he’s becoming sick, even more fearful that if he is indeed ill, he won’t receive much help from his host, who manages to laugh off and dismiss all of Jonathan’s requests and questions. </p><p>He dreams still, but they’re odd now, shadowy. His daily anxiety bleeding into them. Yet, many of them are in the same vein as that first night. Dracula shushing him gently, his mouth sucking on his pale skin, running long fingers up and down his trembling frame. </p><p>Dracula himself looks younger by the day. His skin is almost smooth now, and his hair close to being entirely jet black. His English is better too. Jonathan can barely reconcile the man he sits across from at dinner now with the man he first met in the foyer. The only real similarity is his eyes, they’re black pits, and staring into them for too long makes him feel like he could lean forward and tip into their darkness. Dracula is the call of the void. </p><p>He’s weeks into his stay at the castle when he tries to bring up leaving again. He’s desperate for home - each night he stands his portrait of Mina up on the bedside table, and each morning it’s lying face down. He’s written to her of course, short, perfunctory letters. Attempting to explain why his intended stay of a few days has snowballed into six weeks. Sipping at his wine, which tastes sourer with every passing day, he clears his throat and tries to gather his courage into a wan smile. </p><p>“Count Dracula, staying at your home has been an honour, but I am beginning to feel like my services are no longer required and I-” Dracula cuts him off with a smile that is knife-sharp. </p><p>“I require you,” he says, as though it is obvious, and goes back to reading the papers sprawled in front of him. </p><p>Jonathan’s frustration licks through him like flames, and his brain doesn’t engage his mouth in time to stop him blurting out, “How? I’m not doing anything.”</p><p>Dracula doesn’t even look up, though if he did Jonathan suspects he would see him rolling his eyes, and the thought makes him even more furious. </p><p>“Of course you are. I learn from you every day,” every word is dripping with dismissal, and Jonathan can tell when he’s being warned. It’s an instinctual fear, that makes him drop it. He shifts in his chair, annoyed and uncomfortable. His head is pounding, and his whole body throbs. His chest especially is tender and sore, he’s had to loosen his bindings, the pain is so bad. It reminds him of the pain he sometimes has when he bleeds and...</p><p>When he bleeds. He pauses while bringing the glass to his lips, brow furrowing. Dracula is still flipping through papers, not looking up, and hasn’t noticed him freeze. He should have bled weeks ago, he has rags, folded in the bottom of his bag, ready just in case. But he hasn’t had to use them. It had completely slipped his mind, his time in this house had felt like a moment and an eternity rolled into one, the concept of something as mundane as his menses had faded into the background. </p><p>It must be because he’s ill. His body is clearly so exhausted that it hasn’t arrived, that’s all. Never mind the fact that he’s been regular as clockwork all his life. He takes a sip of his wine. It tastes like vinegar. </p><p>Something wakes him that night. At first he thinks it’s the wind, howling against the window, but then the shadows before him move, and he realises it wasn’t. Biting down on his lip to avoid screaming, he turns his head infinitesimally, trying to get a better look at the figure standing with their back to him. They’re rifling through his belongings idly, flipping through his journal, and despite everything he feels a rush of indignation. The figure huffs a quiet laugh at something he’s written and recognition sets in. </p><p>Count Dracula stands at the foot of his bed.</p><p>It’s at that moment that Jonathan takes stock of himself. He’s sprawled across the bed at a jaunty angle, not at all in the position he fell asleep in. His nightgown too, is crumpled, like it’s been pawed at. The realisation makes him nauseous, humiliation running through his body like a thousand red hot pinpricks. He closes his eyes against it, and when he opens them, it’s light outside. </p><p>He sits up weakly, arms shaking, as the night’s events come rushing back. He swallows against the rising tide of fright and fury, and tries to <em> think</em>. Dracula was in his room. He’d clearly touched him while he’d slept, moved him. His hands quiver, and he balls them into fists, trying to take a deep breath. </p><p>If Dracula was in his room last night, then it was likely he’d been in his room before. But why? Was Dracula making him sick? Poisoning him? Every dinner he’d eaten, every gulp of wine, flashed before Jonathan’s eyes, and he gagged at the thought. Possibly then, but there was something else, something deeper and darker. Dracula himself wasn’t <em> right</em>. He couldn’t identify why that was so in that moment, but something buried and instinctual told him that Dracula wasn’t a normal man. Perhaps he wasn’t a man at all.</p><p>Yet none of those thoughts came close to eliciting the horror that his final realisation did. Dracula wasn’t coming into his room to read his journal, and he wasn’t poisoning him while he slept, so he must have been there for something else. </p><p>He hadn’t been dreaming. All those kisses, all those caresses, all those touches, had been real. Jonathan, trapped in the space between sleeping and waking, had laid pliant in the arms of the monster, and the monster had taken what he desired. Tears prick in his eyes at the thought, and with a cry of desperation and rage Jonathan seizes his pillow and throws it across the room, where it lands by his bag with an ineffectual thump. Feeling immediately stupid, and yet also wishing he’d thrown something heavier, like a candelabra at Dracula’s head during dinner, he stomps over to pick it up, glancing into his bag as he does. </p><p>The rags are tucked in the corner innocently, and he stares at them, heart hammering. The alternative explanation for why he hasn’t needed them blooms in his mind, and it’s that thought that finally makes him vomit.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank-you all for reading! </p><p>Let me know what you think &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He spends the morning in bed, intermittently vomiting into an intricate vase. Spitefully, he hopes Dracula has a fondness for this particular piece of pottery, as he continues to throw up into it. The whole situation just doesn’t feel real - he’s a lawyer, from <em> England</em>. He should be at home with his fiancée, not trapped in an ancient castle with a mad man, possibly carrying his…</p><p>No, he can’t even think it. </p><p>Deep down, he knows there’s no ‘possibly’ about it. His chest is hot and tender, nausea is boiling in his gut, and he hasn’t bled. Now that he knows there has been an opportunity for conception courtesy of what he believed to be dreams, it seems to be pretty much a dead certainty. The thought causes him to be sick again. </p><p>When he sits back up, he’s gasping, sucking in breaths he hopes will steady his stomach. Almost unconsciously he reaches down, and pushes his palm against his lower abdomen. It’s flat still, but he can’t help but imagine a time when it won’t be - he feels a wave of sadness and panic at the image, but no disgust, which shocks even him. Yet again, the poor mite didn’t choose its origins. </p><p>His breathing has slowed, and his sickness abated, for the time being. He knows he has to push aside his whirling feelings, and think like a lawyer, consider his options. Clearly, Dracula is dangerous, and without morals, and he needs to get away. But there’s no way the Count is going to let him leave of his own volition, and his strength has only increased since Jonathan’s arrival, while his own has massively depleted. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage though, Dracula clearly sees him as a bewildered, and rapidly ailing, prisoner. He’s not expecting any sort of fightback. He has a window of opportunity here. </p><p>He has to kill Count Dracula. </p><p>It’s easy to find a weapon in this house, it is, after all, an assortment of nightmares arranged into rooms. One room in particular, seems to contain only dusty old weapons and armour. Jonathan picks out a large knife, heavy and slightly curved, with what looks like rubies embedded in the hilt. His hand shakes when he lifts it, but he knows one well struck blow with this and he’ll be free. </p><p>He dresses himself up slightly for dinner, making an effort, hoping that feeling like his old self, shirt buttoned and hair combed, will give him the courage he needs. His hands still shake as he walks to dinner, but Dracula, luckily, is reading again. His interest in Jonathan has been dwindling somewhat recently, so he doesn’t even glance up, too engrossed in his plans for London. </p><p>Jonathan closes the last of the difference between them in a few quick strides, approaching Dracula from behind. Then he plunges the knife into his back. It crunches, and resists, as though he’s stabbing it into gravel, but he buries it to the hilt. </p><p>He then watches in terror, as Dracula turns to face him, utterly unphased. </p><p>“Ow,” he says, sardonically, black eyes meeting Jonathan’s own horrified blue. He reaches round and pulls out the blade; it’s slick with blood so dark it could be oil. Dracula throws it to the ground with an exaggerated flourish, where it clatters and bounces out of reach. </p><p>There’s a single moment of stillness, and then Jonathan tries to run. He doesn’t make it more than one step before Dracula seizes him by the throat, and throws him onto the long table. He panics, scratching and clawing at the hand around his neck, but it may as well be stone. Dracula stands above him, his expression almost disappointed. </p><p>“Oh, Johnny, Johnny,” he says, voice lilting, “we were having such fun, you and I.”</p><p>His face must show his indignation, because Dracula laughs a little before continuing, “Oh, don’t give me that look.”</p><p>Panic has overtaken Jonathan’s body, and he quivers with it, hot tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He knows the answer to his question before he asks it, “Are you going to kill me?”</p><p>Dracula smiles slightly at that, and his reply is as saccharine as it is blasé, “Of course I’m going to kill you.” The hand around Jonathan’s neck tightens a little; a preview and a promise. </p><p>Jonathan’s mind whites out at that, fear kicking into overdrive, “You can’t!” he splutters desperately, twisting in his grip. </p><p>“And why can’t I?” Dracula says, faux-interested, half enjoying the show, half bored of the whole ‘pleading for one’s life routine’ - he’s seen it too many times before. </p><p>“Because I’m pregnant,” Jonathan breathes, despairing. It’s a last-ditch effort, and a single tear slides down his ashen face.</p><p>Dracula’s hand loosens, just slightly, and for a second his brow furrows before his face becomes cold again, “You’re lying.”</p><p>“No, no, why would I lie? You’d find out soon enough! And I haven’t bled-” his pleading is cut off by Dracula, who suddenly looks interested. </p><p>“No. No, you haven’t,” he says it with a certainty that makes Jonathan shudder, but Dracula’s face is distant, considering, and it makes something like hope bloom in Jonathan’s chest. Dracula’s eyes flick down to his flat stomach, fascination pooling in his eyes. This has never happened before, and there’s little Dracula loves more than novelty. </p><p>“If you’re lying to me Johnny..” he warns, squeezing his throat threateningly. </p><p>“I’m not, I swear,” Jonathan whispers, his whole body still trembling. </p><p>He sucks in a deep, rattling breath when Dracula releases him, rubbing at his throat. Instinctively, he wraps one arm around himself as he sits up on the table, an action which Dracula notes.</p><p>When Dracula next speaks his tone is light, but clearly there’s no room for argument, “You are to stay here. You will be locked in your room during the day, and take dinner with me in the evening. Tonight you are to compose a series of letters for your lovely fiancée, convincing her that you have departed the castle and are on your way home. Is that clear?”</p><p>It sickens Jonathan to agree, but his throat is hot and red still, so he does, “Yes.”</p><p>“Good boy,” Dracula says, with a gentle caress to Jonathan’s cheek. His long nails graze at the skin, leaving behind faint pink lines. Jonathan closes his eyes in (at least temporary) defeat. </p><p>It’s then that he smells it.</p><p>For weeks, so much of the food and drink he’d eaten had tasted off - sour and sickly. But whatever he can smell calls to him, promising to soothe an ache in his stomach that he didn’t even know he had. The only thing on the table is Dracula’s glass, half-full of what looks like wine. Jonathan eyes it hungrily, “What is that?”</p><p>Dracula grins at him, somewhat incredulous, and offers out the glass. “Do you want some?”</p><p>Jonathan’s arms work of their own accord, and he grabs it as soon as Dracula has finished asking. He gulps down the contents greedily. They’re lukewarm, and viscous, but each swallow seems to make warmth well up inside him. Even his seemingly ever-present nausea subsides. </p><p>“Whoa, whoa, careful Johnny,” Dracula cautions, though he looks and sounds delighted, watching the other man desperately drain the glass. He takes it back once it’s empty, too riveted to mourn the loss of his whole drink.</p><p>Jonathan is breathing heavily, teeth still stained an orangey-pink. It’s a beautiful sight. “It tasted...good,” he mutters, half-embarrassed as his senses return, “what was it?”</p><p>“What did it taste like?” Dracula says, his tone teasing. </p><p>Jonathan considers that. Now his hunger has faded, he can taste the remnants in his mouth. It’s thick, salty...with a tang of iron. The taste one experiences when they suck on a split lip. When he looks up at Dracula’s smirking face, his own frightened eyes reflected in the Count’s, he knows exactly what he just drank. </p><p>“Blood.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Dracula has been making Jonathan last, so has been feeding on others as well as him. Don't worry, Jonathan just drank a glass of 'Pinot some-poor-peasant' and not his own blood, ha. </p><p>Thank-you for all your lovely comments, they make me smile &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>cw: mention of stillbirth, mention of domestic violence</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jonathan found himself back in his room. His situation hadn’t quite sunk in, sitting atop his mind - it could not be rationalised, only felt. He was choked, trapped, Dracula was not only a villain but a monster, one which seemed to have walked straight out of a fairy tale, but there was no hero to save him here. His only company was a creature who gulped down blood like it was a rare vintage, and treated life itself as an unimportant and tawdry frivolity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that wasn’t entirely true, Dracula wasn’t his </span>
  <em>
    <span>only </span>
  </em>
  <span>company. Though perhaps whatever was within him didn’t count, it didn’t bring him a great deal of comfort. His feelings on the little thing were constantly shifting. Sometimes he felt something that might have been pity and protectiveness if he possessed the mental energy for it. Other times he felt utterly dispassionate, the child just another horror, gnawing at his insides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daydreaming of Mina had become his only solace. If he closed his eyes and concentrated he could painstakingly reconstruct her face. Her long roman nose, her soft cupid bows mouth, her wild honey-blonde curls. The only issue was her eyes, he knew they were blue, but couldn’t recall if they were more the sea or the sky. He thought it was the latter, after all, being with Mina always felt more like flying than drowning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew her hands were soft, and warm, and when she touched him he felt real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dracula had stopped visiting at night. For the first few evenings he’d sat awake, knees pulled to his chest, eyes burning as he periodically pinched and scratched at himself. He only collapsed when wan sunlight crept across the room. He had been attending dinner though, sitting in petulant silence, staring at the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His host had only smirked at him, half bemused parent, half fascinated child watching a science experiment. It was, and remained infuriating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today would be worse, he knew. For one, he’d woken with a visible curve to his belly, and he knew Dracula’s sharp eyes would hone in on it immediately. When night fell, he stumbled down the stairs as though sleep walking, as expected the Count was immediately on his feet, seizing Jonathan by the upper arm with one hand, the nails digging into his flesh even through his shirt. The other hand on his middle, stroking the tiny bump almost reverently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miraculous,” he breathes, more to himself than Jonathan, who locks his jaw, turning his eyes to the filthy rotting ceiling. Dracula sounds proud, possessive, and it sickens him. He realises then, that his estimation of Dracula is wrong. He is both monster and man, and as he stares at Jonathan’s midriff like it is a flower that has bloomed, he’s reminded of men he knew back home. Men who had a desperate need to own everything and everyone, who did nothing but take and take and take. Which would be bad enough, except everything they took they treated awfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d worked with lawyers who had mistresses, bright young things who would fall upon charming and powerful men by the dozen. Learning too late the limits of their man’s regard, gasping at the sharpness of the slap that came when they asked for more than scraps. Watching with a hot red cheek as they returned to their cock-pecked wives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even this damned house was steeped in that entitled air. The whole place seemed to be crumbling under the weight of its own decadence. Collapsing in on itself, as though at its heart was a void that could never be filled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dracula is talking still, whispering gently, mocking sweet-nothings to both him and his stomach, fascination alight in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a single black moment, Jonathan hopes that when the thing is born, it is malformed, twisted, dead. If only to knock the smirk off Dracula’s face. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter definitely felt like I was expunging some things. I hope you like.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is so self indulgent but a lot of my personality can be summed up by this gif https://media1.tenor.com/images/1e850918864c530a87ddc8fc24ee9268/tenor.gif?itemid=10060319 so...sorry not sorry.</p><p>Thank-you so much to my enabler transkylo, this is for you! </p><p>This will be updated fairly frequently, as this idea will not leave my brain.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>